Razz bounced impatiently on Archer’s shoulder. “Why are you complaining? No breaches to fix! This is a good thing, Archer. Now, we can go home!”
“Still have Archaia to check.”
Razz brushed some dust off her pinstripe blazer. “None of the other twenty territories had any breaches. Why would Archaia? Let’s leave it.”
“We can’t take the chance,” Archer replied. “There are no Intrusion waves here, but still . . .”
“No buts, Archer. You’ve got, like, forty minutes.”
Archer glanced up at Old Jack, the always-visible tower clock that showed Dreamtreaders how much time they had before their Personal Midnight, their deadline. Archer frowned. “A little less, actually. We need to motor.”
The Dreamtreader dismissed his board and started running: running like Olympic gold medalist sprinters wished they could run. In the Dream, Archer could harness his will and move with the speed of a cheetah and the coordination of a mountain lion. With Razz tucked into his trench coat pocket, Archer stormed the moors, bounding from crag to crag, leaping the low, rooty trees, and flashing across any flat land. He ran a tight spiral, stopping now and again to make sure he wouldn’t miss a breach.
At last, he came to a steep incline, leading up to a wide overhanging ridge of black stone. “That,” Archer whispered, “is the Lurker’s home.”
Razz let out a surprised squeak. “L-looks like an old, old tomb dug into the rock.”
“Might as well be,” Archer muttered. “Last time I was here, the Lurker had a pack of ghostly wraith things as a welcoming party for me.”
“G-ghostly . . . wraith . . . things?” Razz let out another squeak. “But we’ve seen enough, right? No breaches. We’re good to go, right?”
“I’m not sure,” Archer said. “I’ve got a bad feeling here.”
“You know why you have a bad feeling, Archer?” Razz shivered. “Because it feels bad here. We gotta leave. You can’t have much time. How are you going to get back to your anchor?”
That, Archer thought, is a very reasonable question. His anchor, an image of the old well his mother had loved, was all the way back in the Forms District. Archer glanced again at Old Jack . . . and growled. Even if he sprinted back across the border and surfed the rest of the way to the anchor, it could get dicey. Minutes had a way of flying by in the Dream, but Archer had his circuit to complete. He’d risk it but needed to be smart.
The mist had been creeping over the lower half of the incline. Now its shrouded fingers were reaching down even to Archer’s feet. He lifted his foot and prepared to take a step.
“No, Archer!” Razz squealed.
His foot suspended in the air above the writhing mist, Archer frowned. “Don’t be silly, Razz.” He lowered his foot.
“Don’t!”
Archer deepened his frown to a scowl and decisively thumped his foot down into the mist.
TWO
WHAC-A-MOLE
“OH, NO!” RAZZ SQUEAKED.
The landscape was silent. “There. You see?” Archer said. “It’s no . . . big . . . uh . . . deal—”
Archer’s words were cut short by a whisper. It was not wind or an Intrusion wave. It was a shivering, whirling breath that seemed to flow through the rippling mist.
Archer didn’t need to look behind himself to know that something was there. He didn’t need Razz to tell him that something enormous was rising up out of the mist.
Without a thought, Archer summoned his sword. Its blue flame kindled to life and flared up the blade. Archer almost laughed at how reflexively he called up his sword. A hint of danger and—WHOOSH—the sword.
“Y’know, Razz,” he said, “this is my favorite Dream weapon.”
“Archer . . .” Razz said, her voice a strangled whisper.
“I mean, I use it all the time,” Archer went on. “Seems like I should have a name for it, y’know?”
“Archer?”
“I always call it ‘The Sword,’ but that’s just cheesy. I mean Arthur had Excalibur, Aragorn had Andúril, and Aidan had Fury. My sword should have a name. Funny how so many heroes have names that begin with A. Hey, my name begins with—”
“ARCHER!” Three unnerving sounds shattered the quiet and rendered Archer and Razz mute: a dire howl, a shrill screech, and a thunderous roar.
Razz disappeared in twin puffs of purple smoke, and Archer spun on his heels to face the threat. His skin went cold, and his mouth dropped open. Archer had seen many strange and horrifying things in the Dream, but this was something new. Something wholly unexpected.
A wide span of the mist rose up like a massive bubble. Something was underneath, and the mist clung to it as it rose. Soon, it began to bulge in several places, and the mist fell away like overstretched gum. As the haze vanished, a living shape emerged. There were spiderlike legs as long and as thick as tree trunks. A serpent torso appeared, ending in a knobby appendage tail, like that of a scorpion. Enormous bat wings extended from the creature’s back, and its long reptilian neck ended in a snarling, spitting wolf’s head the size of a truck.
Archer tried to spring into the air to engage the creature but never left the ground. Instead, he stumbled and took a nosedive. In that crashing moment, he understood why he’d heard those three distinct sounds. Another long neck uncurled from behind the creature. Upon it hung a fierce hawk’s head. Its glittering eyes fixed on Archer. It gave a shrill cry that sounded to Archer like it was hungry.
Archer readied his sword and revised his attack strategy to deal with the two-headed creature. It occurred to him, a bit too late, that he’d heard not two strange noises . . . but three. Archer jumped up and flew toward the hawk’s head. He cranked the sword around in a lethal right-to-left, two-handed slash that never connected. A massive red shape crashed into Archer’s side, knocking him end over end until he disappeared into the mist and slammed into the mossy turf.
Archer gasped in pain, slowly becoming aware of his injuries: dislocated shoulder, broken upper arm, and three cracked ribs. In the Waking World, Archer might not have had the will to continue the fight. But this wasn’t the Waking World. This was the Dream, and Archer had plenty of will.
He rose up, waist deep in the mist, and flexed the mental energy surging within. With each heartbeat, his wounds healed. In the span of moments, they just weren’t there anymore. But the creature was.
Archer blinked. It was a three-headed beast now; the third—more terrifying than the others—was that of a dragon. Two long, slightly curved horns thrust back above its ears, while a shorter, sharper one protruded from its snout. Much like a unicorn, only ugly.
“You’re going down first,” Archer growled. In a blur, he sprinted a wide arc around the dragon-head side of the monster. It rained fire down upon the spot Archer had just vacated, missing by a gasped breath. The Dreamtreader took to the air, surging behind the creature. The dragon head turned, but not before the blade flashed white hot and sliced through its lethal path. The dragon’s roar fell silent, and as Archer made a quick turn, he heard the heavy thud of the creature’s head on the moors below.
The creature reeled, the two remaining heads respectively snarling and screeching. Archer did not idle. He somersaulted over the beast, tapping it on the back of its hawk’s head. When it turned, Archer was ready. He silenced the screeching with a wicked lunging chop.
A vise grip of canine teeth snapped closed on Archer’s leg. The wolf creature flung the Dreamtreader back and forth, shook him vigorously, and threw him to the ground. Dazed and bleeding, Archer stumbled to his feet. His flaming sword was gone, hidden somewhere under the rolling mist.
One of the beast’s spider limbs jutted out, plowing into Archer’s chest and pinning him to the ground. Archer felt the creature’s weight bearing down and couldn’t breathe, but he knew better than to panic. Instead, he used his mind. Seeing the legs, Archer thought he knew just the thing. He mind-crafted a can of Spider Slayer spray and sent a jet of the bug killer right into the wolf head�
�s face.
It yelped and growled but did not let up the pressure on Archer’s chest. Strike one, Archer thought urgently. Still he didn’t panic. With a little more thinking, the idea came. Archer imagined a lit torch and suspended it in the air in front of the creature’s face.
The monster’s tail swung around and cocked backward. It was like an arrow set to the bowstring, and Archer felt certain that those nasty scorpionlike barbs were targeting his face. The tail twitched once and whipped forward.
Not wasting another split second, Archer willed the giant bug spray can to spew its contents once more. This time, the insecticide went straight through the flame of the floating torch, flaring into a gusting storm of fire.
Everything around Archer burst into flame. With frantic steps, the creature staggered backward. It loosed a gurgling, strangled yelp, collapsed into a heap, and went still.
Archer exhaled, feeling quite a bit better without the beast’s foot on his chest. “You can come out now, Razz,” he said. “The creature is toast.”
A deep, sonorous bell rang out—Archer knew that was Old Jack, and he knew that it was his Personal Midnight. He was late for getting back to his anchor. Not good. Missing that deadline—even by a little—was something a Dreamtreader could not do. He had to get back to his anchor. Every second mattered.
Then, with a double poof and a rush of air, Razz materialized. “Archer, what’s going on?” Razz yelped. “That’s Old Jack. You can’t be here! Oh, no. Oh, no. Oh, no!”
From behind, there came three more sounds: a guttural feline growl; a high, thin hiss; and something that sounded like a freight train’s horn. The scorched creature had risen upon its spider legs once more. Its vast bat wings flapped and kicked up gusts of debris. Its scorpion tail whipped menacingly. More troubling still were the creature’s new heads: a lion, a wide-hooded cobra, and some kind of freakish dinosaur with a crown of luminous white crystal.
“I don’t have time for this,” Archer muttered. “I don’t have time at all.” He called up his will and felt a weak surge. Of all his Dream abilities, flying took the most will. It forced the mind to cover so many details: height, weight, wind resistance, drag, propulsion, Intrusion blocking . . . Archer knew what will he had left wouldn’t be enough to fly all the way back to the anchor, but it would hopefully get him over the beast.
“Disappear, Razz!” Archer yelled. “The monster is back!” He leaped skyward and soared well above the creature. He didn’t dare get within range of a lightning-fast cobra strike. No, he gave himself plenty of altitude.
“Archer!” Razz shrilled.
Wicked sharp agony lit up his legs. Incredulous, Archer shouted and wrenched around to see as the cobra head’s fangs sank in. He understood. Wings, he thought. His mind began to cloud with a sleepy haze. The creature has wings. Duh.
Archer called on his will to cleanse his bloodstream of the venom, but that wasn’t good enough. He had no focus left for flying or fighting off the three-headed monster.
The cobra jaws tightened, and Archer felt himself wrenched violently through the air. Then, suddenly, he was loose . . . and falling.
He turned end over end and plummeted. On one revolution, he caught a glimpse of the cobra head snapping back and forth, unable to dislodge the branch stuck in its eye.
Good old Razz, Archer thought. The misty ground below raced up to greet him. He had enough will to slow his fall, but the whipping motion made his left arm go numb for a moment.
He scrambled to his feet and sprinted away, but the lion head craned down, cutting off his escape. Archer turned back just in time to see the third head light up.
The white crystals flared bright, as did the creature’s eyes. It reared back and opened its jaws. A solid stream of bluish-white flame gushed outward. Whatever the breath touched exploded. The stream didn’t stop, carving a fiery furrow and marching right toward Archer.
“What are you, some kind of Godzilla clone?” Archer yelled. “Who dreams of this stuff?”
The turf exploded in front of the Dreamtreader. Archer cartwheeled backward, smacking into the snarling face of the lion.
“Razz!” Archer cried out.
I am here, Archer! a voice answered, but it wasn’t Razz.
Suddenly, a blade of lightning flashed, and the head of the Godzilla thing careened into the mist. The cobra head bounced away next. The beast and its one remaining head tried to dodge the final cut but was too slow. It roared and shrieked but fell silent.
Go now, Archer! the voice commanded, and he recognized it: the Windmaiden, a mysterious ally who had rescued Archer before. I will help.
Archer scanned for Razz, but she was nowhere to be seen. He sprinted away, giving the fallen creature a wide berth. As he ran, he saw the headless necks writhing and flailing. But in a moment, a knobby clump formed at the end of each neck. Flesh peeled back, and new heads appeared: a bear, a hornet, and some kind of jelly thing with three yellow eyes.
“This is like Whac-A-Mole!” Archer growled, trying to sprint past.
I’ve got this! the Windmaiden called. Go, Archer. Go, now, with my aid!
Archer took all his remaining will and used it for a monumental leap. But as he rose into the sky, he felt a sudden pressure behind him as if an invisible hand was behind him, pushing and pushing, faster and faster. Archer felt he’d passed through a kind of elastic membrane.
Then he fell face-first in the grass next to the old wishing well.
His anchor.
Knowing he was past his Personal Midnight, Archer lunged for the well, caught its cool stone wall, and vanished from the Dream.
THREE
THE INNER SANCTUM
“WE MUST MAKE AN ODD COUPLE, EVEN FOR THE DREAM,” Rigby said, smirking at Bezeal as they trod down the slope of hill lit by the Dream’s two moons.
The top of the resourceful merchant’s hood barely reached Rigby’s elbow. His eyes, just pinpricks of yellow light in the blackness that hid all other facial features, glimmered and then dimmed slightly. When Bezeal spoke, his voice was rich and smoky, and, as always, he spoke only in rhyming triplets. “I care not for what these others think. Ignorance is the poison they choose to drink. For us, greatness awaits; we are on the brink.”
“I still don’t understand,” Rigby said, scratching the thick sideburn that knifed down past his ear to his square jaw. “Why shouldn’t Kara be with us for this?”
Bezeal’s eyes flared slightly, a glimmer of white teeth appeared, and he said, “As we have already thoroughly discussed, no one can make this choice, but you . . . you must. And who can be certain who else you can trust?”
“I trust Kara,” Rigby said. “More than I trust you.”
Bezeal’s white grin appeared, broader and whiter than the Cheshire Cat’s smile. “Wise you are to be cautious with Bezeal. And while I do not doubt the things that you feel, be wary for not all promises are real.”
Rigby made a dismissive snort. Kara had been his closest friend since he’d arrived at Dresden High School. Since then, he’d shared his Lucid Dreaming secrets with her, and she’d become his trusted business partner. “I may be only sixteen, but I’m not stupid,” he said.
“When many more seasons you have seen, we’ll know just how wise you have been, for Bezeal knows much, much more than the average teen.”
Rigby ignored the slight as they trod under shadow. He looked up. “This the place, then?”
Bezeal nodded, but Rigby didn’t really need the confirmation. He’d traveled to the Central Library of Garnet Province once before, just never to the Inner Sanctum deep within. His Uncle Scoville was well known in the Dream—feared even—and given a sinister nickname: the Lurker. But even the Lurker couldn’t get Rigby into the Inner Sanctum.
Rigby had spent his share of time in libraries, mostly in England before the move. Garnet’s Central Library reminded Rigby of Haddon Library at the University of Cambridge. It was all serpentine arches made of faded red and gray brick, tall banks of windows that
looked like half-lidded eyes out upon the world, and a stately mansion sort of roof topped off with a wrought-iron weather vane in the shape of a rooster.
Similar in so many features, Rigby thought. Well, except for one detail. Central Library is up in a tree.
As if in the palm of some godlike hand, the entire building was nested within the massive curling limbs of the sprawling sequoia tree. The gnarled green-brown trunk of the tree was fifteen feet thick but didn’t look remotely large enough to support the huge library. Somehow, it did. The library rested up there as if it had grown right out of the tree.
Weird, Rigby reflected. But that’s the way things are in the Dream.
Bats fluttered out of the treetops, as if to make the picture whole. Or rather, they looked like bats. “I really don’t care much for these things,” Rigby muttered. “Why can’t we just fly up ourselves?”
“Sages’ rule,” Bezeal replied. “Not so cruel, to hitch a ride upon a grool.”
Rigby watched the creatures spiral down to the ground. They were black, leathery, and broad, but had no visible torso, head, mouth, or eyes. How they saw, Rigby had no idea. They seemed like a pair of thick wings joined in the center by a marbled stone tile.
Rigby stepped up onto the nearest grool and tried to ignore the queasy wobbly feeling. He heard the grool’s gurgling growl and wondered where the sound came from exactly.
When Bezeal boarded his own mount, the two creatures rippled. Their wings began to flap, stirring hundreds of dead leaves. Slowly, Rigby and Bezeal rose into the air.
Rigby could barely restrain the joy bubbling up inside. The Inner Sanctum. The throbbing heart of the Dream. If any place in the Dream held the answers he’d been searching for, it was here. Ever since his first Lucid Walk, Rigby had longed to search its deep lore. It’s in there, he thought. I’ll find it, Uncle Scovy. I will.
Beneath his confident thoughts, however, Rigby wondered if there really was a way to free his uncle. “Mad Doc Scoville,” as he was known to the Waking World: Rigby’s uncle had been the first to discover the secrets of Lucid Dreaming. He’d mapped out the Dream realms and even drawn conclusions about the physical laws that governed the Dream.
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